Rampage

William P. Wood

Description

 

From bestselling crime novelist (and deputy district attorney) William P. Wood . . . A killer so savage (and so sly) that the brutal frenzy of his crimes makes an unassailable insanity defense—such is the opponent facing Tony Fraser, a young district attorney willing to risk anything, everything, for a sentence of death. Plotted against by court psychiatrists, tormented by vanishing evidence and fugitive witnesses, his own wife a target, Fraser finds himself checkmated by the accused—until he seizes an opportunity to go beyond the letter of the law.

To experience the final, stunning climax of Rampage is to thrill to the tensions of a high-stakes capital case, to go behind the scenes of our justice system, and to find a dark and terrifying clockwork there.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Policier
• Thrillers
• Rampage
• Crime
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 20 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781620454770
• Langue: English

Extrait

Praise for
RAMPAGE

"A feeling of truth permeates this book . . . one of the better courtroom dramas of recent years."
— New York Times
"Clear and compelling."
— Newsday
"From first to last, Rampage is superior . . . Please do not miss this one."
— Cleveland Plain Dealer
"A taut courtroom drama . . . Hard to put down."
—William J. Caunitz, Author of One Police Plaza and Cleopatra Gold
"This is stark, gritty courtroom/backroom drama."
— Kirkus Reviews
"A powerful courtroom drama."
—Steve White, Chief Assistant Attorney General and Head of Criminal Division, State of California
Also by WILLIAM P. WOOD

Sudden Impact
Gangland
Broken Trust
Pressure Point
The Bribe
Stay of Execution
The Bone Garden
Quicksand
Fugitive City
    RAMPAGE
RAMPAGE
WILLIAM P. WOOD
TURNER -->
Turner Publishing Company
424 Church Street • Suite 2240 • Nashville, Tennessee 37219
445 Park Avenue • 9th Floor • New York, New York 10022
www.turnerpublishing.com

Rampage Copyright © 2014 William P. Wood All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design: Maxwell Roth Book design: Glen Edelstein

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wood, William P. Rampage / William P. Wood. pages cm ISBN 978-1-62045-469-5 1. Serial murders--Fiction. 2. Insanity defense--Fiction. I. Title. PS3573.O599R3 2014 813'.54--dc23 2014019909

Printed in the United States of America
14 15 16 17 18 19 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my family
Preston, Eleanor, and Mark
with love and admiration.
    RAMPAGE
Now 'tis evident that in the case of an infection there is no apparent extraordinary occasion for supernatural operation, but the ordinary course of things appears sufficiently armed and made capable of all the effects that Heaven usually directs by a contagion. Among these causes and effects, this of the secret conveyance of infection, imperceptible and unavoidable, is more than sufficient to execute the fierceness of Divine vengeance, without putting it upon supernaturals or miracles.
—Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year
Neither the city nor the people described in this story are real. They have no actual counterparts and must not be seen as depictions of real places or real people. They are, from first to last, imaginary.
     Likewise, no actual crimes are presented in this story. The crimes and consequences that occupy these fictional people are absolutely without connection to any true events.
     Finally, let me be specific about the legal setting of this story. While I have drawn on my knowledge of the law and experiences as a lawyer, I have not used real people involved in criminal law as models for characters, or real events for stages on which to set the action of this story. Because this is a story about violent and bizarre crime, it necessarily includes characters who are judges, lawyers, psychiatrists, and members of law enforcement agencies. These are also people of the imagination, as are the other characters, and not actual judges, lawyers, psychiatrists, or policemen.
PART ONE -->
Chapter 1

ONE
On Wednesday, near ten in the morning, the Eastgate Mall bustled. The Christmas shopping fever was building, with only two weeks left before the holiday. Shoppers eddied briskly through the parking lots toward the stores, and the steady clanging of Salvation Army bells mingled with sprightly music piped throughout the mall. He left the white Chevy at the edge of the mall and walked back a block to Mission Drive, and at least a few of the women shoppers stared at him momentarily before he turned the corner and was lost from view.
     He walked canted a bit to one side, then righted himself and walked on. He was a tall, gaunt young man in dirty blue jeans. His face was pinched, as if pushed in from either side, and his black hair hung limply down to his shoulders. It flapped in the light breeze over his forehead and ears.
     Although the day was California bright and sunlit blue, the December cold penetrated the red nylon ski parka he wore over a gray sweatshirt. His black sunglasses formed the dark upper half of his face; the lower half was made up of a small beard and unshaven cheeks. He moved more slowly as his eyes searched along the houses on Mission Drive. He looked at each home, tilting himself suddenly to one side, swinging back upright again, buffeted by an unseen wind that stirred no trees or leaves.
     Several times he paused in front of a house. But then, each time, he walked on. Ahead, halfway down the block, he saw a young woman in yellow knit pants get out of a car, trundle some bags to her door, and go inside. At once his walk quickened. He listed over, swung upright, planting one foot in front of the other without taking his gaze from the stucco-fronted house down the block. Hands fumbled in the pockets of the parka to make sure everything was still there, and now he was almost at a trot, still wobbling, still staring. He was at the front door.
     He pushed the doorbell. It sounded inside. He stood still and waited.
     When the door opened, it framed an old woman, a baggy gray one with coiled white hair and a musty smell, as though she'd come straight out of a cedar chest. "What can I do for you?" she asked. Her look of courteous curiosity faded to an expression of concern when she registered the odd appearance of the young man in front of her.
     "I'm collecting old clothes for charity," he said softly, as though it would hurt his voice to raise it.
     "What? I couldn't quite hear you." She leaned forward, hands still on the door, ready to close it.
     "I'm collecting for charity. Old clothes, if you have any."
     "No, no thank you, we don't." She smiled faintly, retreating into the house, an old turtle pulling herself back into the safety of her shell.
     He stepped forward. He was partway inside.
     "How about cans? I'm collecting cans and bottles. You know, soda cans."
     Behind the sunglasses, his pulpy eyes regarded her.
     "No thank you," and she pushed against the door.
     He stepped inside, and she was shoved back, her thick white arms flailing. "Get out," she said, but instead he shut the door behind him.
     "Sit down," he told her. He took a small gun from his parka and pointed it at her.
     She squealed and her face bunched together. "Sit down," he repeated, shooting her in the face. In the living room the sound was a crack, like a yardstick snapping. The old woman pitched part way back onto a sofa so her head rested on the cushions. A small red hole just above the bridge of her nose gaped and dripped.
     He made a tiny whining sound and headed toward the rear of the house. Someone else had to be home. He'd seen the young woman go inside. He clumped awkwardly through a hallway, then into the brighter kitchen. An old man and the young woman were at the sink.
     "I'm collecting for charity," he said to them.
     "What was that noise?" the man demanded harshly, and the woman stood still, a head of lettuce in her hands with water sluicing over it.
     Instead of answering, he made the gasping whine and aimed the gun, his body suddenly pulled off to one side again. The young woman trembled and dropped the lettuce into the sink.
     "Go into the bedroom," he said. The voice remained soft, even though he was sweating. He lunged and pushed the old man, who put his hands in the air.
     "I'll tell you where the jewelry and my wallet are," the young woman said in a high voice, "and we won't call anyone. We won't."
     "Go into the bedroom." He shoved again. The old man and the woman walked slowly out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway in front of him. "Where's my wife?" the old man asked abruptly. He was a paunchy old man in a cardigan and pastel slacks. His moustache was pure white.
     They were almost at the bedroom. He stepped up behind the old man, put the barrel of the gun against his head, and fired. The old man fell forward onto the woman because they'd been walking so closely together. She screamed and tried to run ahead. He leaped over the old man, who'd toppled face forward to the hall carpet, and grabbed her by the arm. For an instant she stared right at him, her face drained of color, twisting in his grip, screaming. He screamed, too. He shot her first in the chest. She fell back into the bedroom, gasping and bleeding on the floor.
     He crouched over her and shot her on either side of the head. Satisfied that she would stay silent, he went back to the hallway and did the same to the old man. Then he went into the living room and looked at the old woman bleeding on the sofa. He shot her again on either side of the head, reloading the gun afterward.
     The living room had a picture window, framing a green-curtained vista, a serene square lawn, the sidewalk, and the street, lined with houses identical to this one. He got down onto his belly, slid across to the draw cord attached to the curtains, and pulled it so the window was covered. The room was now in murky green dimness.
     On his hands and knees, he crawled back to the old woman. The cushion under her head was dark red and wet. He pulled her down onto the floor and put his hands under her arms, dragging her slowly toward the rear bedroom, her clothing making a sibilant sound on the carpet. She was heavy, moist, and solid. He panted and gabbled, his fleshy lips pouting as he moved backward until his heel kicked the old man. Breathing fast, although not entirely from exertion, he hefted the man into the bedroom. He came for the old woman